


The Case Of The Tiny Kitten

by DragonGirl87



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Cats, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Drinking & Talking, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, No Drunkenness, POV John Watson, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, dutch courage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-01-14 21:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18485119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonGirl87/pseuds/DragonGirl87
Summary: John wakes up one morning to make a stunning discovery; Sherlock's managed to surprise him yet again.





	1. The Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been a big fan of the British TV-show Sherlock and after binging on a whole lot of amazing stories (and the TV-series, _again_ ), I decided to try my hand at writing something myself.
> 
> I'm planning to make this a short story with three chapters, a little bit of fluffy nonsense (though I may end up adding some smut later on). I still feel a bit unsure about portraying Sherlock the right way, but I'm going to give it my best shot. We all have to start somewhere, don't we?
> 
> I'm not entirely sure where exactly I'd place this, I suppose somewhere between the first and the second season, perhaps. I don't think I will make any references to cases and/or the TV-show so I don't think it matters much.

* * *

John made his way downstairs into the main part of the flat, fully dressed except for a pair of shoes. He’d opted for a pair of washed out jeans and a comfortable jumper to fend off London’s early autumn chill.

He stretched a little and half-suppressed a yawn. He wasn’t exactly tired anymore but he wasn’t quite fully awake yet.

Sherlock was up and about – in a manner of speaking anyway. He was on his back on the sofa, nothing unusual about that. With his legs bent at the knees and the heels of his bare feet digging into the sofa cushion beneath, he looked like he had no intention of moving any time soon and John didn’t blame him, it was still early. Sherlock had pressed the fingertips of both hands together and they were resting underneath his chin, barely touching the bottom of it, something he usually did when he was deep in thought.

Naturally, he hadn’t bothered to dress and was still in his striped pyjama bottoms and a dark grey t-shirt, as well as his silken midnight blue bathrobe, which he hadn’t bothered to tie at the front.

John was only mildly annoyed at the level of detail he noticed whenever he looked at Sherlock or in his general direction even – though these days it also happened whenever Sherlock drew his attention to something. Still, he’d spent enough time in Sherlock’s company to have gotten accustomed to those oddities. Seemingly, it was just one of the things you did when you spent every day in the company of a brilliant detective with an attention to detail that was, at times, worrisome.

“Good Morning, Sherlock,” John said.

He wasn’t expecting to get a proper response in return, it rarely happened.

He was right.

“Hm,” Sherlock replied in acknowledgement without turning his head or taking his eyes off the little grey kitten that lay curled up in his chest, clearly fast asleep.

_Hang on._

John paused and abandoned any plans to head into the kitchen to make tea or think about breakfast.

A kitten? As in a live animal? On Sherlock’s chest? Curled up? Asleep? Comfortable? At ease?

What was going on? Had he woken up in an alternate universe?

They didn’t have a pet. Or at least to his knowledge they didn’t. They certainly hadn’t had a pet yesterday. Things could have, of course, changed since he’d gone to bed last night. With Sherlock, one could never know for sure. That was the beauty of things. And the danger. At any moment anything could happen.

“Sherlock, why is there a kitten on top of you?”

“Puzzling. In the process of working it out,” Sherlock said, still not looking at him.

John didn’t quite manage to bite back a smirk.

“Got any theories, then?”

This prompted Sherlock to finally look at him with his scrutinising blue eyes. John shifted uncomfortably, not because he had anything to hide but because Sherlock’s piercing gaze, whenever he fixed on him like that, made him feel things he wasn’t ready to let Sherlock see. He had no doubt that Sherlock would be able to deduce them based on his body language but he didn’t want him to.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true.

In a way he wanted Sherlock to know how he felt but he was also scared of what might happen when Sherlock figured out the magnitude of his affection.

“Several. Did you bring him home last night?”

“Don’t be daft. I think you, of all people, would have noticed if I’d come home with a kitten, Sherlock.”

John rolled his eyes and made his way into the kitchen after all. Peculiar, Sherlock was most definitely in a peculiar mood and he wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with it. The dark moods he could handle, the crazy _the-game-is-on_ -moods he could handle too. This one, not so much. Namely, because he had no idea what mood Sherlock was presently in. He was most certainly inattentive but not so far gone that he’d stopped noticing what went on around him.

“Do you want tea?” John called out.

He didn’t get an answer and with a half-suppressed sigh, he pottered around the kitchen, putting the kettle on, and finding two clean cups and matching saucers. He made two strong cups of tea, one for Sherlock and one for himself, adding a splash of milk to them both.

Cups in hand, he returned to the living room. Sherlock made no move to accept the offered cup of tea and shaking his head John placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table where Sherlock could reach it if he so desired. He perched himself on the edge of the sofa, near Sherlock’s feet, and idly sipping on his tea, John let his eyes sweep over Sherlock’s relaxed form.

Apart from the kitten contentedly sleeping on his chest, there was nothing unusual about his pose and chuckling into his tea, John pulled out his smartphone, unlocked it and clicked onto the camera button. He double-tapped the screen to focus, then snapped a photo of Sherlock with his kitten.

“It likes you,” he said, glancing at the photograph, he’d just taken, and smiling warmly.

“He,” Sherlock corrected.

John frowned.

“It’s a he,” Sherlock clarified, unclasped his hands, and petted the small kitten gently.

It stirred a little, stretched, lifted his head to yawn, then shuffled about, curled up again and continued to sleep.

“Looks like you’ll be confined to the sofa all day.”

“Hm,” Sherlock shrugged and continued to pet the kitten.

“Are we keeping the little fella?”

Sherlock shuffled a little, reached for his tea and took a few careful sips of the hot beverage. He fixed his eyes on John, who held his gaze for as long as he could, then looked away and toyed with his half-empty teacup.

“I found him curled up on my bed this morning,” Sherlock volunteered a bit of information. “He’s been following me around ever since I got up.”

John lifted his teacup to his lips but paused halfway, looked at Sherlock and smiled.

“He likes you.”

“Hm,” Sherlock turned is attention back to his tea. “I would appear so. Why did you take a photo of me?”

John chuckled.

“Well, it’s not every day you get to witness a famous detective snuggling up with a kitten.”

“I’m not, he’s using me.”

“You don’t appear to mind being used,” John said and got to his feet. “Breakfast?”

“Fridge is empty.”

John sighed.

“Why does that not surprise me? I’ll get something from the café.”

“Can you find something for the kitten too? I’ve no idea what cats eat.”

John opened his mouth to remind Sherlock of the vast knowledge inside his Mind Palace but decided against it at the last moment. Instead, he merely nodded and setting his now empty teacup down on the coffee table, he left to grab his wallet, which he’d left upstairs, and to find a pair of shoes he could slip into.


	2. Fix Him!

* * *

John closed the door behind his last patient for the morning and fished his vibrating phone out of his black chinos. He glanced at the screen and wasn’t at all surprised to find that all his unread messages were from Sherlock.

> _Need help. -SH_
> 
> _If convenient, come home, now. -SH_
> 
> _If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH_
> 
> _Matter of life and death. -SH_

John sighed and tapped out a response.

> _Be there shortly._

He received Sherlock’s reply instantly and couldn’t quite suppress his smirk.

> _Sent car. -SH_

Shaking his head, John shrugged out of his white doctor’s coat and exchanged it for his jacket. He made sure that his keys were inside in jacket and left the surgery, though not without informing the nurse at the reception that he needed her to reschedule his afternoon appointments. She assured him that he would take care of it, and thanking her, John left the building.

He spotted the car instantly. A black private car, the kind Mycroft always sent when he ‘abducted’ him for a chat. It was waiting for him by the curb and he rolled his eyes. Trust Sherlock to find a way to highjack his brother’s car for his own selfish purposes. John climbed into the back, fastened his seatbelt and sitting back, he waited for the driver to take him to Baker Street.

The car ride home wasn’t especially long, lunchtime meant the roads weren’t congested, but he was still rather bored and unlocking his phone, he aimlessly tapped on his photo album and flicked through a few recent photographs. Embarrassingly enough, most snapshots featured Sherlock or their new flatmate or a combination of the two.

About two weeks had passed since he’d found Sherlock on the sofa with a tiny grey kitten curled up on his chest and for some reason, the fluffy little thing was still around. Earl Grey — John had unsuccessfully tried convincing Sherlock that this wasn’t a suitable name for a cat, which had resulted in a condescending response, _he prances about like an ostentatious aristocrat and he’s grey, what else do you want me to call him_ , had moved in, litterbox and everything — continued to, without fail, follow Sherlock everywhere he went.

Sherlock wanted to examine something under the microscope, Earl Grey curled up right beside him or in his lap. Sherlock sat in his favourite armchair, lost in thought, Earl Grey was right there on the armrest, expectantly looking at him. Sherlock went to bed, Earl Grey followed. Sherlock left his bathrobe untied; Earl Grey chased the silk belt. Sherlock played the violin, Earl Grey meowed along to the composition.

It was ridiculous and although John had, on more than one occasion, asked whether Mrs Hudson had left them a stray kitten, she continued to deny it. He’d tried to get Sherlock to deduce whether she was lying, but he’d merely given him a blank look and then resumed petting the kitten. The icing on the cake was, however, that ever since Earl Grey’s unexpected arrival, Sherlock hadn’t taken a single case, was studiously avoiding Lestrange’s messages and calls and seemingly didn’t give a care in the world about a good murder case.

The car pulled to a halt right in front of 221B Baker Street and snapping out of his musings, John locked his phone, undid his seatbelt, and climbed out of the back of the car. He closed the door behind him and as the car drove off, he made his way to the front door, retrieving his keys on the way.

He barely made it inside when a highly agitated-looking Sherlock came running down the stairs and grabbed his wrist, dragging him up the two flights of stairs.

“Fix him, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said, pointing at Earl Grey, who lay curled up in the centre of his armchair.

John raised an eyebrow at him, took a precautious deep breath and reminded himself to remain calm.

“Sherlock— you do know that cats sleep for most of the day, don’t you?”

Sherlock pierced him with his crystal-blue eyes and glared hard.

John sighed.

“I’m sorry. What’s the matter?”

“He won’t eat, he didn’t drink the special kitten milk you bought and he walks funny. Like he’s drunk or something. You’re a Doctor, fix him.”

John brought his hand up to his face and rubbed it. He briefly closed his eyes and swallowed the urge to scream, opting for a mildly exasperated sigh instead.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes, I treat humans, not animals.”

“Is there a difference?”

“You— never mind, I won’t win an argument against you anyway.”

“Wise man. Now, fix Earl Grey, _please_.”

John did not miss the imploring undertone of Sherlock’s voice or the fact that he had said _please_.

 _Please_ wasn’t a word Sherlock used freely. In fact, John was sure that he could count the number of times Sherlock had politely asked him for something on one hand. Knowing better than to argue, John bit back whatever retort was on the tip of his tongue and crossing the room, he crouched down in front of Sherlock’s armchair. He carefully picked Earl Grey up and cradled him in his arms and moving to sit down in his own armchair, he gently checked him over.

The kitten’s eyes were slightly sunken and deadpan, he appeared unusually lethargic, he was breathing faster than he should, and his heart rate was slightly elevated. John thought for a few moments, then turned his head to look at Sherlock, who was restlessly pacing up and down, his open bathrobe billowing behind him and swooshing around his calves.

“Did he follow you around today?”

Sherlock stopped pacing and shook his head.

“No. He’s mostly just been lying in my chair, sleeping, looking miserable.”

“Hm, I really am not a vet, you—”

Sherlock’s dark glower silenced John mid-sentence and only barely managed to suppress a sigh. He glanced back and forth between Sherlock and the tiny grey kitten in his lap, then resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock expected him to perform a miracle and cure his beloved pet. The idea that it had taken all but an afternoon for Sherlock to fall in love with a little furry four-legged animal resulted in an unhealthy bout of jealousy washing over him.

 _I’ve followed you around for years, yet you don’t feel this strongly about me_ , he thought bitterly, then resolutely pushed that thought into the furthest corner of his mind and cleared his throat.

“Would you fetch me my physician's bag from upstairs, please?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded, spun on his heel, and dashed out of their living room, clearly taking the stairs two steps at a time. He returned less than a minute later and John took the offered bag from him. He placed it on the small coffee table, opened it and grabbed his stethoscope. He checked Earl Grey’s heartbeat, just to be sure, however, his initial diagnosis had been correct, the kitten’s heart beat too fast.

“I wager he’s dehydrated,” he dared to make a diagnosis, though he didn’t feel particularly confident about it. There was, however, absolutely no point in trying to tell Sherlock — again — that he wasn’t a vet. Sherlock was counting on him and he was loath to disappoint him. If this kitten meant so darn much to Sherlock, John was determined to give making it better his best shot.

“Hm,” Sherlock acknowledged him and continued his nervous pacing.

Shaking his head, John reached inside his medical bag and retrieving a needleless syringe and a small bottle of high concentration glucose solution, he told Sherlock to bring him a cup of lukewarm water.

Sherlock jumped into action immediately, strode into the kitchen and returned with the requested water.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Hm,” he said and crouching down in front of him, he reached out to pet Earl Grey.

John opened the bottle, added a small amount of the glucose solution to the water, then filled the syringe with it. He gently pried the kitten’s mouth open and slowly fed him the sweetened water, knowing it would pep the little fella up immediately. Unsurprisingly, Earl Grey eagerly swallowed the sugary concoction and John let him have the entire syringe.

“This will help, but it’s only an interim solution. We should really take him to see a vet, get a blood test,” he explained and petting the tiny kitten, he tried not to flinch away when his fingertips accidentally brushed against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s hand stilled and their eyes met. John swallowed hard and made two unsuccessful attempts at clearing his throat.

“He’ll be fine,” he croaked, lightly placing his hand on top of Sherlock’s, and squeezing gently. He had no idea what had possessed him and made him lie to his best friend but the frantic worry in Sherlock’s eyes tore at his heartstrings and he wanted to provide a least a little bit of comfort. He was sure that Sherlock was able to see right through his white lie and therefore wasn’t at all prepared for the response he got.  
  
“Thank you, John Watson, you’re a good man.”

John forced himself to smile. Sherlock making compliments or saying thank you was an even rarer occurrence than Sherlock saying please and John desperately wanted to savour the moment, wanted to remember those words forever. He made a conscious effort to squeeze Sherlock’s hand again and was about to say something in response when a tiny little meow made them break eye contact and look down at the kitten in his lap. Earl Grey had wriggled out from underneath their hands and was precariously attempting to keep his balance as he shuffled on his front paws, gently digging them into John’s thighs.

Painfully aware of the fact that they were now holding hands, or rather that he was holding and squeezing Sherlock’s hand, John hesitated for a moment, then withdrew his hand and let it rest between his leg and the armrest. He coughed and somehow managed to repress the desire to blush like an embarrassed school girl.

“Er, Sherlock, let’s take him to a vet, there’s a pet clinic not far from here. They’ll make sure nothing is wrong with him. You should, however, probably get dressed before we leave.”

Sherlock nodded and rising to his feet, he silently retreated to his bedroom. John stared after him for the longest time and gently petting Earl Grey, he shook his head. He wasn’t quite sure what exactly had just happened but a second ago, the air between them had been crackling with tension and the strange promise of something or other. It rather unsettled John and unwilling to think about it further lest it forced him to acknowledge his feelings for Sherlock, he cradled the kitten in his arms and stood up.

Unsure about what to do, he aimlessly paced the room and waited for Sherlock to emerge from his bedroom.


	3. Cuppa Tea, Anyone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, I thought I'd get it done in three chapters, and really, I could, but the number four suddenly seems a lot more enticing...

* * *

John snapped the lid of his laptop shut and putting the device aside, he stretched his legs out in front of him and stared at the empty chair in front of him. It felt odd, sitting here on his own while Sherlock was in his room. It so rarely happened that they didn’t spend all evening in the same room – even if they were both occupied with different things – and John didn’t want to allow it but the loneliness settled in the pit of his stomach anyway and refused to budge too.

 _Ridiculous_ , he thought.

Sherlock was at home.

He was merely in a different room.

They were together.

In their flat.

Hmpf.

Scoffing at his own insanity, John heaved himself out of his chair and stretched. A casual glance at the clock on the mantelpiece above the hearth told him that it was just gone eight o’clock.

Perfect time for a cuppa tea, really. Then again, there was never a bad time to have tea, he supposed.

He rubbed his still sore shoulder and as he headed into the kitchen to flick the kettle on, he made a mental note to inspect it for bruises later. He’d been too preoccupied with other things the day before.

They’d only just finished assisting the Yard on a case, one that had taken Sherlock about a week to solve – he’d, of course, kept them all in the dark about everything, as was his usual MO, leaving the police – and John – to chase the breadcrumbs he deigned to share. It had ended with Sherlock chasing the murderer through half of London – or so it had felt at the time, namely yesterday – after disarming him and John, as usual, chasing Sherlock. Lestrade and a bunch of officers had chased after him in a desperate attempt to keep up with Sherlock who, when the game was on, waited for no man…or woman.

John shook his head and pulling one of the kitchen cupboard doors open, he absent-mindedly reached for two cups and two saucers, carefully placing them on a corner of the cluttered kitchen table.

He lived for the thrill of doing his best to remain hot on Sherlock’s heels – which at times really wasn’t the easiest thing to do, especially when one wasn’t privy to what in the name of the everything John held dear was going on in Sherlock’s head – whenever they were on a case; the adrenaline rush was just what he needed.

However, just being at home, tucked away in the safety of 221B Baker Street, was – sometimes – just as much fun. Sherlock would, of course, beg to differ. John snorted, thoroughly amused by his own thoughts – though he was rather glad that Sherlock wasn’t around to witness him having a moment of being silly for no apparent reason. It would undoubtedly entice Sherlock to mock him derisively, as was his speciality.

That strange feeling of aloneness crept up on John once more and leaving the kettle and tea be, he headed out of the kitchen and down the short corridor to Sherlock’s room. The door was ajar, though only marginally so, and John raised his hand. He was about to knock on the door but hesitated and lowered his hand again when he heard Sherlock talk – though not to himself, he knew that much.

Inexplicably to everyone – including John – Sherlock had taken to conversing with the cat, talking to it – _him_ , John immediately corrected himself in his head, Sherlock tended to get quite prissy about the incorrect pronoun usage when referring to Earl Grey – and John couldn’t help but wonder how many secrets their furry companion was privy to.

John resolutely ignored the pang of jealousy. He wasn’t going to turn green with envy simply because Sherlock seemingly enjoyed talking to his most faithful follower, a British Shorthair kitten.

 _Me, that’s me, I’m your most faithful follower_ , John thought bitterly and instantly drowned that thought in a deep pool of a whole lot of other things he preferred not to dwell on, whenever he could help it at least. Tonight, he was apparently unable to help it. He’d only just finished typing up the first draft of his recount of their latest case and his mind was full of images of Sherlock doing this and that. He reminded himself that he absolutely had to read over his case notes to ensure that he hadn’t romanticised the whole tale — it simply wouldn’t do to post something that was an ode to Sherlock’s talents and his ridiculously good looks rather than something that did their case justice.

“Don’t be silly now, Earl, I will absolutely not allow you to have any of that Scotch—”

Sherlock’s voice broke through his thoughts and John smirked. He tried his best not to imagine the scene on the other side of the door. Sherlock was probably on his bed, lying on his side with his head propped up on his elbow, trying to fend off the cat, who could, when he really wanted something, be quite persistent.

John raised his hand again and was about to make a second attempt at knocking on the door when Sherlock’s next words caused him to freeze and for a split-second, he forgot how to breathe.

“Oh, come off it, Earl, your eyes might be the same colour of magic as John’s but that look absolutely isn’t going to work on me. It doesn’t whenever John Watson does it and it most certainly won’t now, you haven’t got a hope, you cheeky furry thing you.”

Frowning, John stood very still, then involuntarily gave into the shudder that surged through him. He somehow found it in him to remind himself to breathe and tried to ignore the goosebumps that had, inexplicably, broken out all over his body. Sherlock was frequently in the habit of saying odd things and John couldn’t come up with a single logical explanation as to why Sherlock’s words were currently making his world fall apart – except that he could and it made his head spin at dizzying speeds while his heart violently pounded inside his chest, threatening to break through his ribcage. Cold sweat replaced his earlier goosebumps.

He swallowed hard and repeatedly, clenched, then unclenched his hands and just stood in front of Sherlock’s almost closed door. His ears were buzzing and he was vaguely aware of the fact that Sherlock was still talking but he couldn’t make sense of any of it, didn’t even hear any of it. He was still reeling, still trying to process whether Sherlock had simply made an off-handed comment or, since he was in the privacy of his own room, had meant what he’d said. And if he had, then what did that mean for them? Did it even mean anything for them?

Quite sure that he was about to have unwanted heart palpitations, or possibly suffer a fatal cardiac event, which given the way he currently felt, seemed highly likely, John gripped the doorframe and dug his nails into the wood. He gave trying to regulate his breathing another try and promptly jumped half a mile out of his skin when the door was suddenly pulled open and he found himself face to face with none other than Sherlock Holmes, the very person who was to blame for the fact that he was bordering on having a full-blown panic attack.

“John.”

It was a simple enough statement. It lacked astonishment or shock. Sherlock was completely calm. Apparently, there was nothing unusual about dragging the door to one’s room open and finding one’s flatmate – close to having a fit – standing in one’s doorway. John was quite sure there was everything unusual about it but then again where people’s reactions were concerned, Sherlock did not, and never would, fit the norm. He was a conundrum; had been from the day they’d met and that was never going to change.

John dragged his eyes up to meet Sherlock’s and vaguely noted that he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath his midnight blue silk robe, which, naturally, hung open, with the belt only haphazardly fastened around Sherlock’s lithe frame.

The fact that he noticed all that sent John’s thoughts into a tailspin and he was about to give in to the strong urge to succumb to a panic attack – locking himself inside his room and refusing to emerge for the remainder of the century was rapidly becoming a very good idea – when two strong hands, Sherlock’s hands, gripped his biceps and squeezed hard.

That touch, the unexpectedness of it, snapped John out of whatever devilish forces had tried to get the better of him and he inhaled sharply and deeply, then exhaled very slowly. One didn’t have to be a genius to deduce that Sherlock knew that he’d heard him talk to the cat. Still, miraculously, Sherlock found it necessary to make an entirely redundant statement, which was completely and entirely out of character – as John would later, once his brain resumed semi-normal function, remember.

“You heard.”

“Yes.”

John nodded mutely.

“Tea?”

“Please.”

Sherlock let go of his arms, squeezed passed him and walked straight into the kitchen. John shook his head, turned on his heel and stared after Sherlock for a whole five minutes – although Sherlock would later argue that it hadn’t taken him more than two – before he realised that his own legs were capable of transporting him from his place in front of Sherlock’s bedroom to the kitchen.

As he slowly headed for the kitchen, John couldn’t help but think that tea was the last thing he wanted right now. He rather liked the idea of Scotch, an entire bottle perhaps? There was no way this wasn’t going to be awkward and John wasn’t sure he was prepared to have an awkward conversation with Sherlock. Not that it would be the first time. Sherlock was an expert at saying things nobody in their right mind could understand. Then again, John hadn’t been in his right mind for a long time – at the very least for as long as he’d known Sherlock and definitely since he’d allowed himself to accept that the feelings he had for Sherlock went deeper than the feelings one had for a friend, no matter how annoying.

There was hatred, that one was obvious, of course. One couldn’t be Sherlock’s friend without hating him, too. It was a prerogative, John was fiercely proud of, even though he had no hope of explaining it in a way that made sense or without sounding like a completely deranged lunatic.

There was admiration, naturally, for how quick Sherlock’s mind worked and how he seemingly knew – or didn’t know – things nobody/everybody else did. How he figured things out and how quickly his mind could become his own worst enemy, especially when not continuously stimulated. His thirst for knowledge, his unquenchable desire to lose himself in the mystery of a case – John admired all that and so much more.

There was fascination, that was a given. One couldn’t live with Sherlock and not be fascinated by how he managed to survive on virtually no sleep or sustenance at all. How he never cared about his state of dress inside the flat but refused to leave their four walls unless impeccably dressed in his tailormade shirts and trousers – apart from that one time when he’d left 221B Baker Street to visit Buckingham Palace dressed in nothing but a sheet.

There were a whole lot of other feelings but John decided to skip to the one that had, within a very short space of time, become most important.

Love.

He loved Sherlock, loved absolutely everything about him. What others loathed or found frustrating, he found endearing. He was quite sure that _endearing_ was not a word he should be using to describe Sherlock Holmes but John couldn’t quite help himself. He had fallen hard for the one man, who made him question his own sanity daily, and for whom he did things he couldn’t fathom doing for others. It had taken him months to get to the point where he was comfortable with admitting his feelings to himself.

He hadn’t yet reached the stage where he’d allowed himself to consciously think about a world, in which the possibility that Sherlock might reciprocate his feelings, existed and now that he’d inadvertently overheard something that alluded to that world perhaps being real, his mind had gone into overdrive and he wasn’t quite sure to handle it.

Sherlock, however, apparently seemed to be perfectly able to handle the situation – something that stunned John completely – and so he tentatively decided to follow Sherlock’s lead. Whether that was a good idea, he didn’t know. Since he presently felt neither confident about his ability to properly articulate himself nor able to deduce what was going on in Sherlock’s mind – then again, trying to work out what was going on in Sherlock’s mind was the fastest way to suffer the loss of one’s sanity – allowing Sherlock control over a situation John still failed to fully grasp was probably the best choice he presently had.

John stepped into the kitchen just in time to witness Sherlock filling their teacups with expensive Scotch, which he had clearly procured from some hidden place in the kitchen, before handing one of the cups to him. John gratefully accepted the cup of Dutch courage and noting that his hands were shaking quite badly, he downed half of the potent liquor before he managed to spill it all over Sherlock’s latest experiment. He’d abandoned it in favour of the case they’d – he’d – solved yesterday.

“Shall we go sit?”

Sherlock waved his hand into the vague direction of the living room but made no attempt to move towards it until John nodded. Scotch-filled teacup in hand, Sherlock strode into the leaving room and lowered himself into his chair. He threw one leg over the other and John followed, yet again, and at a much slower pace. On the way over, he finished his drink but instead of setting his empty cup down he brought it with him – he needed something to hold on to, something to fidget with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, it's not laziness that made me stop here, I just felt that, after such an emotional rollercoaster (on John's part) it was a good place to stop and take a breather. I shall be back with more shortly.


	4. The Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, interestingly enough I had absolutely no plan when I started writing this story, but if you ask me those are the best kind of stories. I let the characters drive me, they told me which way to go and it was a wonderful experience. I'm glad I completed something entirely new - this has been an exhilarating self-imposed challenge. I shall write more for this fandom, I think.

* * *

John hesitantly sank into the soft cushions of his armchair but unable to relax enough to fully sink into the chair, which is what he usually did, he remained sitting upright. He let his eyes roam around his and Sherlock’s living room but nothing special caught his attention until he focused on Sherlock’s hands.

He’d put his Scotch-filled teacup down on the armrest of his chair and his hands presently rested on top of his thighs with his fingers splayed out over his pyjama bottoms – it was a pose John himself might find himself in, not one he’d ever seen Sherlock adopt. Strangely enough, and somewhere along the way, Sherlock had also found the time to draw his bathrobe together. He’d tightened the belt properly and John found himself blinking in surprise – in all the years he’d lived with Sherlock, he didn’t think he’d _ever_ seen him with his bathrobe fastened like this.

Part of him couldn’t help but wonder whether it was an unconscious attempt, on Sherlock’s part, to make him feel more comfortable and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth – Sherlock always did these little things that he later claimed not to notice but that John treasured dearly, though whenever he pointed them out to Sherlock, he would flat out deny that he’d done any such thing. Despite the tense atmosphere, John gave in and, well, smiled.

“Amused?”

Yet another entirely useless statement from Sherlock who was well able to deduce that John’s smile was one of morbid amusement rather than extreme embarrassment or genuine excitement – though he really wished the reason for the smile was the latter, it would make things so much easier. Still, Sherlock was that good and the fact that he thought it necessary to make statements of his nature let John believe that Sherlock perhaps also felt a little out of his depth – or did he? He was, after all, a genius and quite apt at hiding his true feelings or thoughts. Then again, being good at hiding one’s feelings or thoughts didn’t mean that one didn’t have them, it simply meant that one was better at keeping himself to himself.

John briefly looked at Sherlock’s face, gave a strange sort of acknowledging half-nod, then stared into his empty teacup and toyed with it. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his fingers. Burying them in Sherlock’s curly locks was not an option and probably wouldn’t be an option for the near future or ever. Twisting them around the lapels of Sherlock’s bathrobe and demanding an explanation for the confession he’d inadvertently heard him make when he’d been conversing with Earl Grey about the merits and demerits of kittens indulging in a tumbler of Scotch. As for the many other things he could be doing with his hands, somehow the majority of them seemed to include Sherlock and John quite resolutely didn’t allow his mind to go there – it would be his undoing, he knew that much.

On one hand, he was curious to the degree that it felt like he might burst if Sherlock didn’t start to talk soon but on the other hand, the oppressing silence between them wasn’t all that awkward – or at least that was what John kept telling himself. This forced and unnecessary silence between them was very much awkward but John suspected it was nowhere as awkward as the conversation they were about to have would be.

Several more minutes of silence past between them and John couldn’t help but wonder whether Sherlock was waiting for him to start the conversation, something he had no intention of doing. Yes, it would most likely put an end to them merely sitting across from each other without engaging in any sort of meaning full conversation – or maybe they were, in fact, engaged in a meaningful conversation of deducing the meaning of micro-expressions and he was simply too daft to notice. Despite his desire to know more about why Sherlock thought he had the ability to look at people in a way that made it impossible for them to say no to him, he didn’t have the slightest idea of what to say.

Finally, Sherlock shifted in his armchair and kicking his slippers off, he bent his right leg at the knee and pulled it up, digging the heel into the leather cushion. His left hand moved to steady his teacup and John’s eyes followed his every movement, not because the way he moved was particularly interesting but because this was Sherlock and inexplicably John always found himself drawn to whatever Sherlock was doing and even the simplest of moves caught his immediate attention.

Somehow, ever since they’d met, it had become a habit of his. Much like a parent supervising their child on the playground, John always and mostly unconsciously, made sure that he had at least one eye trained on Sherlock. Even when he appeared engrossed in a good book or focusing on completing patients’ records or writing a new post for his blog or reading the paper, out of the corner of his eye he could always see Sherlock and knew whatever he was up to.

He’d never paid much heed to it, and given Sherlock’s antics, he’d always considered it quite normal. However, ever since he’d finally allowed himself to admit that his feelings for Sherlock stretched far beyond what constituted as a normal friendship brought on by spending long hours together, working on high-profile cases and sharing a flat, he’d come to realise that the reason he always looked out for Sherlock was because he just cared so damn much.

“So, I guess, you expect an explanation.”

When Sherlock suddenly broke the silence, John snapped out of his thoughts immediately. Just like that, he focused on Sherlock and only on Sherlock. Everything else paled in comparison and he barely noticed that Earl Grey had patted out of Sherlock’s room and curled up on the rug in front of the hearth. He was resting his tiny little head on top of his front paws and John had to admit that he looked very sweet – really, it was impossible not to like him.

“That would be nice.”

John had to practically force the words past his lips, because, really, he couldn’t just sit there and say nothing, however, the moment they were out in the open, he wished he hadn’t said them – it felt like he was accepting the offer to have tea and a biscuit not have a heart to heart with Sherlock that was bound to change the dynamics of their relationship forever. The thought of that thoroughly terrified John and he resolutely and quite firmly pushed it to the furthest corner of his mind – any further time spent on trying to deduce the outcome of his conversation based on current progress was bound to end with John’s heart temporarily giving out on him.

“I lied.”

Two words from Sherlock was all it took. John let go of the teacup, he’d been toying with all this time, and it dropped onto the ground with a dull thud. The rug thankfully stopped the porcelain from breaking into a million tiny pieces. John’s jaw dropped, though he didn’t really know why. It wasn’t like Sherlock hadn’t lied to him before. He was exceptionally good at it and although John had repeatedly forbidden him to do so, Sherlock still occasionally resolved to omit the truth or glossing over certain facts. It always annoyed John, even though he knew that Sherlock generally did it with the very best intentions – namely to protect him.

“Not the right way to start this conversation then, hm, let me try again, I’ll endeavour to be more specific.”

Thankfully Sherlock continued talking before John had the opportunity to voice his displeasure over his continued liberal use of the truth. John grudgingly closed his mouth and finally leaning back in his armchair, he took a deep breath – to calm his nerves, he told himself. It was complete nonsense, of course. He hadn’t been _this_ calm in a long time and he was rather surprised about it.

“You clearly overheard me talking to Earl Grey,” Sherlock said. “Well, I lied, though I highly doubt he knows the difference, despite the fact that I believe him to be rather intelligent.”

John kind of wanted to ask Sherlock what point he was trying to make but he figured that the blank questioning look, that currently graced his face, did the job for him. Sherlock would be able to deduce that he was struggling to comprehend the point he was trying to make – or at least John hoped Sherlock would be able to do just that by correctly interpreting his present facial expression.

“I feel quite silly admitting this but you do have a certain look that you tend to utilise ever so often that I absolutely cannot resist. I loathe it, actually, because, and I doubt you know this, but you could get me to do anything when you use that look.”

“What look?” John asked.

He fervently racked his brain for a memory of one occasion when Sherlock had done what he’d asked him to. It pained him to admit, even if it was just to himself, that he couldn’t think of a single time Sherlock had ever done anything that hadn’t been his own idea. The Sherlock he knew was notoriously stubborn. He did things his way, always, and he never let anything or anyone come between that – even getting him to eat something when he was busy with trying to solve a most puzzling case was a struggle that repeatedly drove John to the brink of insanity.

Sherlock’s soft laugh sent a shiver down John’s spine.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I’ve no way of describing it? I don’t think it’s just in your eyes, though those are especially hard to resist, it’s the way you hold yourself and the way to speak. I believe, if you were to use these means separately, they probably wouldn’t be enough to break me but because you’re using a combination of things, I just cave.”

“Sherlock–”

John paused to rub his face. He sighed into the palms of his hands, then looked at Sherlock and held his gaze for several moments, before he continued to speak.

“You never do anything I say, it’s always your way or no way.”

“Quite on the contrary, my dear John Watson, I bend to your desires more times than not and for a very good reason.”

John didn’t want to laugh, he really didn’t but he couldn’t help it. Sherlock’s response, the way he insisted on using his whole name and his choice of words brought forth a prolonged chuckle and despite the odd turn their evening had taken, John grinned. In response, Sherlock’s lips curled upwards into a rather cheeky smirk.

“Name one thing that you have ever done because I told you so,” John challenged.

Strangely enough, for the first time ever he wasn’t annoyed when Sherlock gave him a pointed look, then rolled his eyes at him.

“The things I do for you, John Watson, I could fill the pages of a book with them.”

Sherlock looked straight at him and unable to look away John held his gaze – a small shudder surged through him. One didn’t have to be a world-class consulting detective and a genius with a mind palace to deduce that Sherlock’s words were all but a silent plea to read between the lines and so John did.

Within seconds, realisation dawned on John. It was the small simple things! Sherlock wordlessly accepting _and_ drinking that cup of slightly less-than-tasty coffee from him when they were stuck at the Yard for several hours at a time. Sherlock’s lack of vehement refusal to eat a proper meal whenever the game was on and the way he would simply take and eat the energy bar John handed him. Sherlock’s exasperated looks and sighs whenever he beseeched him to do or not do certain things before randomly changing his habits to accommodate John. Sherlock’s silent acceptance of John, his lack of reluctance to include him in his life, befriend him, confide in him. Around him, Sherlock was softer around the edges, he did and said things he never did or said around other people – it was his way of showing that he cared, that he cared a great deal.

The list went on and on and on and John’s mind threatened to explode with the influx of information and the flood of memories. Another shudder made him straighten his spine and taking a deep breath, John clasped his hands together and rested them in his lap. How had he missed all the signs? How had he not seen what had been right in front of his eyes this whole time – Sherlock cared. He had feelings just like everyone else and his heart responded to certain stimuli just like John’s heart had stupidly and stubbornly decided that Sherlock, despite never having shown any obvious interest in men, was the man for him.

“Sherlock–”

“John–”

Not knowing what to say, John buried his face in his hands, then dragged his fingers through his hair. He got up and paced back and forth; it was a habit he hated with a passion but somehow, he clearly had at some point during their friendship adopted Sherlock’s inability to sit still. His realisation made John pause mid-pace and he stared at Sherlock, who hadn’t moved from his armchair and appeared the epitome of tranquillity when he had every reason not to be. John huffed out a laugh and shook his head. He strode over to the window and stared out onto the street. It was dark and Baker Street was quiet, calm. There weren’t many cars or people for that matter, and John allowed himself a moment to focus.

His mind refused to cooperate and after several minutes of trying to instil some order and calmness, he gave up and letting out an exasperated sigh, he turned around. He walked back over to his armchair but instead of sitting down, he first bent over to pick up the teacup, he’d dropped earlier, then perched himself on the edge of his chair’s armrest.

“How long?” he asked quietly.

“Probably since the first time we met, to an extent at least. As much as it pains me to admit, I’m loath to put an exact date on it.”

John snorted.

“You can’t put a date on love,” he said.

He instantly wanted to slap himself. He hadn’t meant to bring that bombshell into the conversation but somehow, it had wormed itself in there without either one of them, lest of all John Watson himself, noticing.

“No, you can’t.”

Sherlock shook his head.

John wasn’t sure what exactly to make of Sherlock’s utterly blasé response but he’d also known him long enough to take it for what it was – Sherlock being Sherlock. He had the very peculiar ability to remain calm when most people didn’t and lose his shit when others stood by passively and were unable to make heads or tails out of his reaction, or anything he was trying to say for that matter.

A low and whiney meow briefly drew John’s attention away from Sherlock and he glanced down at his feet. Earl Grey had risen from his nap and wound himself around John’s legs, rubbing his head against his calf and shin. It was a gesture Earl Grey usually reserved for Sherlock and only Sherlock, which was why John was rather surprised to find himself at the receiving end of unexpected affection from their furry companion – and the very reason as to why he and Sherlock were having this conversation in the first place.

“Apparently it means that he’s hungry. Or that he’s trying to make you smell like him because he considers you part of his family.”

“Ah.”

John really didn’t know what to say to that. Sherlock doting over a kitten was difficult enough to comprehend, him spouting all sorts of knowledge about cats was, or so John thought, a very good reason to result in his brain short-circuiting.

“Ignore him, he knows where his food bowl is.”

It was with quite some difficulty that John dragged his eyes back up to meet Sherlock’s – and he was rather unprepared for the look of warmth on Sherlock’s face and promptly slid off the armrest of his chair. Thankfully he slid to the left rather than the right and landed in the soft cushions of his armchair.

Sherlock’s soft chuckle resulted in something or other in the pit of his stomach repeatedly doing a few backflips and John grinned with mild chagrin.

“Tell me the truth, Sherlock, please. Was Earl Grey some sort of weird experiment on your part?”

Sherlock sobered up immediately and shook his head.

“No, John, I swear. I still have no idea how he got in here. Besides, you told me you don’t like being experimented on.”

“It’s not like that’s ever stopped you before.”

This time, it was John’s turn to chuckle and he shook his head softly.

After a moment of silliness, he composed himself and looking right at Sherlock he was about to pose a question when his mind went blank. Something about the look in Sherlock’s eyes rendered him entirely speechless. There was a bit of amusement there, clearly, and admiration, funnily enough, and then there was a strange kind of longing John had never seen before. It made his skin tingle and his brain offered a series of rather unhelpful suggestions; stop talking, kiss him, ravish him…and it was only with great difficulty that he managed to turn those thoughts off completely.

“You were jealous of him, right from the first moment you saw him up until– No, actually, you’re still jealous.”

John wanted to object, and quite vehemently so, however besides all the strange things he’d just read in Sherlock’s eyes, he also saw determination and a silent plea for John not to argue with him and so he swallowed the sigh that was on the tip of his tongue and took a deep breath.

“Ridiculously enough, yes,” he said.

Sherlock’s smile was entirely worth the cringeworthy confession and suddenly John didn’t feel all that silly about being jealous of a cat; a cat who got to snuggle up to Sherlock whenever he pleased and who got to share Sherlock’s bed and was, quite possibly, the only creature in the world who managed to get Sherlock’s complete attention which had, on a few occasions resulted in Sherlock placing Earl Grey above a case.

“John– If you, if you wanted, well, you needn’t be jealous of him. I’d– I mean I wouldn’t be, you know, opposed to–”

“My affection in addition to Earl Grey’s?”

Sherlock merely nodded.

“Are you sure you can handle that much intimacy?”

John wasn’t entirely sure what had made him ask that silly question but thankfully Sherlock didn’t appear to mind having his motives questioned. Or if he did, he knew how to hide any indication of it.

“With the right person, yes.”

“And I am the right person?”

“John Watson, you’ve been the right person for a very long time. I was just waiting for you to realise it yourself.”

John shook his head, ran his fingers through his hair, then focused on Sherlock and feeling a strange sort of surge of electricity zap through him, he wetted his lips and rose to his feet. He took a step forward, looked down at Sherlock, who simply lifted his head to meet his gaze. John was quite sure that he was presently operating on autopilot and deciding not to question it, he reached out and offered his hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced at it, smiled, and mutely placed his own, larger hand in John’s. Yet another jolt of energy surged through John and he closed his fingers around Sherlock’s hand, marvelling at the softness of his palm and the length of his fingers. It really wasn’t the first time he’d held Sherlock’s hand but it was most definitely the first time he’d done so with the intention of kissing him, which was the only thing John wanted to do right now.

He tugged on Sherlock’s hand and urging him to his feet, he waited for Sherlock to rise, then sighed with mild resignation as he remembered that Sherlock was a head taller than him.

“I can, you know–” Sherlock offered and promptly bent his knees a little to appear shorter.

“Daft idiot.”

John laughed and tightened his hold on Sherlock’s hand.

They stood like this for several moments, not because they didn’t know what to do but this moment of anticipation, the slow burn of it, and the obvious knowledge that in a few minutes they would, without the shadow of a doubt, kiss for the first time, was simply delicious. The air around them crackled, most of the room was blurry and out of focus and they’d both seemingly temporarily shut off their eyes and ears for nothing outside their tiny little bubble appeared to matter.

“This is the most patient I’ve ever seen you,” John whispered.

Sherlock chuckled.

“I assure you, not for much longer and you’re not likely to get a repeat of this very often.”

“Should I prepare myself for an ambush every time I return home from the surgery?”

“Nah, you were a soldier, you’ve been trained to expect these. It really wouldn’t be much of a surprise.”

“Don’t be so sure of that, Sher–”

John didn’t quite manage to finish the sentence since Sherlock had decided to press his lips against John’s and John’s brain outright died. A massive tremor, that felt unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, went through him and he returned the kiss with the same amount of vigour Sherlock had shown him when he’d taken the initiative to end their inane back-and-forth banter. John felt entirely overwhelmed by the feel of Sherlock’s lips against his own. He’d kissed a fair few people before, possibly also one or two men, but nothing compared to this; a pair of soft, full lips gently pressing against his own without the slightest desire to hurry things along or stop proceedings altogether.

He let out a small sigh and experimentally parted his lips a tiny bit. Sherlock responded almost immediately by slightly adjusting the position of his own lips and John did it again, and again, and again, and then one more time, just for good measure. He was quite sure that whatever they were doing might look awkward to an outsider but it didn’t feel that way. Quite on the contrary, it felt absolutely and utterly perfect and feeling just a little bolder, John parted his lips a fraction and nipped at Sherlock’s top lip.

Sherlock responded with the same amount of enthusiasm as he’d shown throughout their kiss and they both deepened the kiss by mutual, unspoken agreement. There really was no need to bring their tongues into the game just yet, this, for a first kiss, was everything John could have never imagined, not even in his wildest dreams. There was something so innocent about the way they kissed yet also something so familiar that the sweetness of it all made John’s heart weep.

He moved his free hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, brushed the side of his long neck with his thumb, then wound his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and let out an appreciative little sigh. In response, Sherlock placed his free hand on his hip and squeezed gently. John took half a step, or less than that, closer to Sherlock, deepened the kiss a little further, though their tongues continued to remain dormant. This time it was Sherlock’s turn to let out a little sigh and something fluttered insistently in the pit of John’s stomach. He let the feeling consume him entirely.

John had absolutely no idea how much time had passed but by the time they broke away from their first kiss, it felt like hours had gone by. He stared at Sherlock and moving his hand, he brushed his thumb over Sherlock’s lips.

“That look,” Sherlock whispered against the tip of his thumb. “I can’t resist that look.”

His confession made John smile.

“Does that mean I could get you to do anything right about now?”

Sherlock sighed, then nodded.

“Good to know.”

John chuckled, then pressed his thumb against Sherlock’s lips.

“I want you to kiss me again,” he said.

Before Sherlock could follow through on the request, a loud and insistent meowing came from somewhere around their feet. They both looked down and found Earl Grey winding his way around their feet. Snorting with half-suppressed laughter, John watched as Sherlock bent down, picked their furry grey companion up and cradled him against his chest.

“Do you think he’ll mind if I kiss you while cuddling him?”

“If he bites you, you’ll have your answer.”


End file.
